Goodbyes

This blog will still exist. I won't delete it, and I might use it for personal posts. But I have my own website now, which can be found at www.beardedeloise.com. It's a bit sketchy right now and there isn't anything on it yet but there will be. I'll still be using this site to update my "things I've read this year" post. Thankyou to all the people who read, commented and sent me anonymous hatemail via this website.
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In which I embrace the bullshit

I fuck a lot of stuff up. The long list of things I ruin numbers in the thousands but my most notable include great relationships (because who wants to be FUNCTIONAL?) and being at university (because who needs a DEGREE?). I like to think of myself as a modern day Midas. Only everything I touch doesn’t turn to gold but instead crumbles between my fingers, covering me in the inevitable stink of shit. My best friend is the same. We frequently rue the fact we are not “proper human beings”. We are like characters from Peep Show. Perpetually awkward. Incapable of making adult decisions. In an ideal world, we would have constant surveillance from some sort of motivational life coach. As it stands, we don’t. So we don’t do anything. Ever.

This topic has come to the forefront of my mind as I’m searching for a flat to move into with my boyfriend. This seems like something impossibly adult. A FLAT of my own? With a BOYFRIEND? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? I could say that I had it all planned out but the whole sequence of events was just a long succession of good luck and haphazard avoidance of catastrophe. Needless to say, things don’t normally work out like that for me. Things usually fall apart before they even happen. I normally end up back in my bedroom, constantly refreshing my Twitter feed until something else happens to my life.

When I was at university, for one brief and unsuccessful year, I lived with a girl who personified the antithesis of me. Her notes were colour co-ordinated. Her sheets were always clean. She always got up on time. She probably always had a clean pair of pants on. Her room was ALWAYS tidy. In other words, she was absolutely everything I’m not. And you know what? She was boring as shit. The most boring human being I have ever met. Boring. As. Balls. 

So basically, I’ve decided to stop worrying about the fact I’m a mentally ill fuck up. Right now I’m happier than I have been for AGES. I’m in a functional relationship. And it’s the least conventional relationship I’ve ever been in. I’ve embraced the fact I’m not the sort of person whose life runs smoothly. At least when I write my autobiography, it’ll be a fucking good read.  

"There's more to life than books you know..."

I mentioned my aim to read a book a week this year on Twitter the other day and a few people wanted to know what my list was so far. So here it is:


Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
Goodbye to Berlin – Christopher Isherwood
Persepolis – Marjane Satrapi
Maus – Art Spiegelman
V for Vendetta – Alan Moore/David Lloyd
When Rabbit Howls – Truddi Chase
Phonogram 2 – Kieran Gillen/Jamie McKelvie
Money – Martin Amis
Mr Nice – Howard Marks
Watchmen – Alan Moore/Dave Gibbons
Arkham Asylum – Grant Morrison
All Star Superman Vol. 1 – Grant Morrison
All Star Superman Vol. 2 – Grant Morrison
Naked Lunch – William Burroughs
Vimanarama – Grant Morrison
Doom Patrol Vol. 1 – Grant Morrison
Doom Patrol Vol. 2 – Grant Morrison
Doom Patrol Vol. 3 – Grant Morrison
The Gum Thief – Douglas Coupland
Foundation – Isaac Asimov
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol 1. – Alan Moore
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol 2. – Alan Moore
The Illustrated Man – Ray Bradbury
Doom Patrol Vol. 4 – Grant Morrison
Doom Patrol Vol. 5 – Grant Morrison
Violent Cases – Neil Gaiman
Sandman Vol. 1 – Neil Gaiman
Sandman Vol. 2 – Neil Gaiman
Sandman Vol. 3 – Neil Gaiman
Kill Your Boyfriend – Grant Morrison
Condensed Chaos – Phil Hine
Prometheus Rising – Robert Anton Wilson
The Invisibles Vol. 1 – Grant Morrison
Sandman Vol. 4 - Neil Gaiman
Sandman Vol. 5 - Neil Gaiman
Test Card F: Television, Mythinformation and Social Control - Anonymous
The Walking Dead Vol. 1 - Robert Kirkman/Tony Moore
JLA Vol. 1 - Grant Morrison
Sandman Vol. 6 - Neil Gaiman
Sandman Vol. 7 - Neil Gaiman
A Brief History of Time - Stephen Hawking
Russian Criminal Tattoo Encylopedia Vol. 1 - (a re-read)
Crooked Little Vein - Warren Ellis
Sandman Vol. 8 - Neil Gaiman
Kiki de Montparnasse - Jose-Louise Bocquet
Y: The Last Man Vol. 1 - Brian K. Vaughan
Tank Girl 2 - Jamie Hewlett/Alan Martin
Transmetropolitan Vol. 1 - Warren Ellis
We 3 - Grant Morrison
Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk (I have read this book more times than I care to remember)
T.A.Z. - Hakim Bey (this is the most incredible thing I've read in years. Read it.)
The Ultimates Vol. 1 - Mark Millar
The Ultimates Vol. 2 - Mark Millar
Death Note - Tsugumi Ohba 
Transmetropolitan Vol. 2 - Warren Ellis
Y: The Last Man Vol. 2 - Brian K. Vaughan
Morning Glories Vol. 1 - Nick Spencer
Y: The Last Man Vol. 3 - Brian K. Vaughan
Ham on Rye - Charles Bukowski
Y: The Last Man Vol. 4 - Brian K Vaughan
The Invisibles Vol. 2 - Grant Morrison
The Invisibles Vol. 3 - Grant Morrison
How I Escaped My Certain Fate - Stewart Lee
Preacher Vol  1 - Garth Ennis
Preacher Vol. 2 - Garth Ennis
Transmetropolitan Vol. 3 - Warren Ellis
Freakangels - Warren Ellis
Transmetropolitan Vol. 4 - Warren Ellis
Sleepwalk - Adrian Tomine
The Filth - Grant Morrison
Transmetropolitan Vol. 5 - Warren Ellis
The Dark Stuff - Nick Kent
Y: The Last man Vol. 5 - Brian K Vaughan
Y: The Last Man Vol. 6 - Brian K Vaughan
X-Men: E is For Extinction Part 1 - Grant Morrison
X-Men: E is For Extinction Part 2 - Grant Morrison
Fantastic Four: 1234 - Grant Morrison
DMZ Vol. 1 - Brian Wood
Sebastian O - Grant Morrison
Judge Dredd: Lawcon - John Wagner/Robbie Morrison/Richard Elson
Chaos Creativity and Cosmic Consciousness - Rupert Sheldrake/Terence McKenna/Ralph Abraham
250,000 Years of Erotic Freedom - Alan Moore
Superlearning - Sheila Ostrander/Lynn Schroeder
How To Be A Woman - Caitlin Moran

Living Dolls?

I recently picked up this book in Waterstones and have just finished it. It was so gripping that it took me all of three days to totally devour it. It totally reminded me exactly why I class myself as a feminist and has led me to reconsider a few of my own life choices and some of the behaviour I participate in. It got me thinking about the ways in which our hypersexual culture affect us all. I've always considered myself pretty clued up when it comes to the sexualised society we live in. My mother was, and still is, an ardent feminist and being a big reader myself I'd got through The Second Sex and The Female Eunuch by the time I was 15. The bands I listened to also had a strong influence on me, and they were always artists who were very opinionated on the importance of not judging or discriminating in terms of gender or sexuality. Morrissey declared himself the "prophet of the third sex" and a lot of Manics fans I know are bi/pansexual or gay, or transgender. You'd have thought this was encouraging. Despite the very obvious ways that sex is used in the media to influence and to control, there's always alternative culture to return to, to take solace in, right? Well, having thought about the ideas Natasha Walter discussed in her book, I'm not so sure.


It's true that mainstream culture is a huge influence on us all, whether we like to think so or not. I know for a fact that despite my unconventional and liberal upbringing a lot of my self worth has been tied to sex. At university, probably the worst time in my life, I slept around quite a bit in order to validate myself and increase my self worth. In hindsight I find it shocking that I believed that being sexually desired by a drunk stranger was the way to make me feel good about myself. I never considered doing something for myself personally, seeking help or engaging in any activities that really would help my self worth. I do now feel that in many ways this is a direct consequence of living in the pornographic culture that we do. Comparing yourself to porn stars and models, to the girls who saturate every single piece of media you encounter; that can't be good for anybody. I know that many girls engage in the same behaviour I did and enjoy it immensely; but that doesn't have to be the only way.


Now, it is not only the Nuts and Zoo type girls who we have to fend off. It would be slightly easier for me to distance myself from the pneumatic blonde, the stick thin pouting girls with breast implants and impossibly long legs. That was never my "look". I liked the alternative side of things; tattoos, piercings, vintage clothes. But even that has been damaged by relentless sexualisation. The SuicideGirls phenomenon is presented as an alternative to the mainstream culture. Their website states that "SuicideGirls is a community that celebrates ALTERNATIVE BEAUTY and alternative culture from all over the world." This idea of "alternative beauty" is stressed very heavily on the site. The girls have tattoos and piercings, they shout. They're quirky and individual, not just Barbie dolls from a factory line.  It's refreshing, they claim. It's fun and sexy and obviously arousing but not in the exploitative or damaging way that more mainstream pornography can be.


I disagree. If you examine the models on the site and take away the gothic packaging, there isn't much to differentiate them from the girls you might see in Zoo magazine. They all have good bodies, straight teeth, nice make up, pretty faces, big eyes, good skin. They may have dreadlocks, or tons of piercings, or be covered in tattoos, but the beauty that they're selling is not much different from that it claims to be against. Models from the site have reported widespread abuse, that respect for women is just the same if not lower than in conventional pornography or erotic modelling. Previously I had seen it as refreshing and exciting, and in many ways had actually been inspired by them. They're tattooed and pierced but they're hot! I felt it was exciting and different. Now, I think I was wrong.


It makes me wonder; what's left for women? When even alternative and underground cultures are being taken over by cookie cutter good looking women, where do those who don't fit in the very limited spectrum of "beauty" go? I'd like to be able to define myself outside of my sexuality and would hope that younger girls would too.  To be a woman is not to be a pair of breasts and a bum. Our role is not to titillate and perform for men. Obviously everybody wants to look attractive, but that doesn't necessarily mean ticking certain boxes. I have stretch marks. One of my boobs is bigger than the other. I have a flabby stomach and I burn after 3 minutes in the sun. I'm not tall, I'm not thin, I'm not toned, I'm not tanned and I never, ever will be. Previously, on nights out or when with more traditionally beautiful girls, this made me feel small and insignificant. But the fact that I'm not "conventionally" attractive doesn't make me less of a woman. It doesn't even make me less sexy. Your self worth is not tied up with your sexuality. I'm so glad I read this book at a time when I most needed to be reminded of this. I hope other girls will see this message too and come to realise they can do so much more with their lives than make themselves into a work of erotic art simply to be devoured by men. I hope they realise that, although they can go into glamour modelling or pornography, that there are thousands of other opportunities for them too. I hope they realise that they are not defined by their sexuality. We can do what we want and this should never be defined by what is expected of us. So ditch your fake tan and bin the fake eyelashes. We can rebuild respect for ourselves and for other women one step at a time. I'm with you all the way.

Ghosts

It was the punctuation of your heart
That set you apart
From the others.
The brackets;
Open, not closed,
That separated us from everybody else.
I hid inside you.

Your name was branded on me,
A ghost tattoo decorating my skin.
You dangled the bait;
I bit.
Your scent a whisper on the lips of loss.
And then, and then.
You flee. 

Plagues

Frogs, lice, flies;
The plagues that crawled on my skin.
Forsaken, my cold bones
Twisted in a smog of unspoken desires.
A desire to hunt and be hunted,
To kill and be killed.

The curious vulgarity of hatred
Crawled on my skin, too,
And in my heart.
There were crows;
A murder.

Swimming Against the Tide

Swimming against the tide was what we did best;

The dark pools of our eyes proving too deep

For the rest of the world.

What was it that we reflected?

Was it art, poetry, love?

Or was it the hatred, thick in our hearts,

That oozed from our skin?

I buried you deep underground;

Tried to forget.

Yet; you beat inside my heart.

One two three four,

One two three four.

I can still hear you now.

Sylvia & Ted

The thread of her words seems unbreakable in your eyes.
And me?
Just incapable of prising you away
From her poisoned green eyed stare
That would not even dare to return the furtive glances
You thought I could not see.
Maybe in your mind you are Siamese twinned
(Like you and I in mine);
Her intoxicating presence lingering in our lives,
Despite the fact she is not
Supposed to be here,
And I am.

I am the one with the steadfast passion,
The fiery eyes
You would always never forget.
The one to refuse goodbyes.
But how precarious we stand,
How thin the line to walk
Between the shuffling
Murder of goodbye
And the trickling days of forever
That house the love in which we would have happily drowned.

Perhaps it is all those words
I breathe in daily
Where nothing is simple or beautiful
Without catastrophe to
Scar the days
Like the purple scars on my wrists
That sing like Roman royalty
To passers-by.
And you, with your demoniac
And tragic heroism,
Your famous secrets
That mean nobody can ever really reach you.

And so we begin again;
Begin that twisted waltz
We forever step together.
And hard as it is for me to admit…
Maybe it isn’t perfect anymore;
Maybe my books and yours
Have given us those ideals
We swore we’d never hold.
Perhaps the creeping doubts that steal my sleep
Are trying to teach me how to tear away,
How to run or flee or anything to escape this suffocating life.

The line we walk is thin,
The words we choose vital
To the depths of our seas
And lengths of our worlds.
I would rip your Shakespeare
Page by page
To tear her from our lives;
To break the monotony of misery
That you and she inflict.

Maybe I shall be immortal
And shall drench the world with the words
I can craft from nothing.
He shall be immortal too;
Cruel? A bully?
How will they cast him
In the mystery of the unknown future?
I shall be known as the poetess
Who dreamt of fire;
Drawn, moth-like,
Not to the flame itself
But to the aura of absolute darkness at the light’s edge.

Ice Cream Dreams

This is a poem I wrote after I broke up with someone I was with for two years.

You told me to forget;
But those soaring moments of euphoria
Are stuck in my mind.
And what did you expect?
Months that stretched behind us
Just trickling away
Like the water from the fountain we watched together.

At least my suspicions finally became tangible.
When I thought you were lost
Inside my arms
You were in fact lost in the arms
Of someone who was not me.
She returned to you,
Somewhere I could not reach you;
In your dreams.
Her face floating over mine
Until our memories slowly drifted away.
All of those months,
Those late night phone calls,
The days we retired to bed early
And revelled in the pure, joyous fact we could
Are now tainted by what you could not forget:
Her kisses, not mine.

So you ask me to forget
But those coffee-shop crosswords,
Those silent hotel nights
Are things I cannot shake out of my mind.
Licking fingers clean of
Those sticky ice cream dreams
We could have shared.

How to Disappear

I can still remember the shuddering, broken

Silence of those days

In which he took me hostage.

The long white lines

Had taught him how to disappear

And I had been left,

Floundered in

The burning, swirling acid of

Rejection,

Unable to keep up with the carousel

Of chemical highs

That made him dance,

His love coloured lips planting vodka flavoured kisses

On everyone that passed;

The carousel

That left his bones

Broken and charred.